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Childhood: Secure ... happy ... innocent.
Little sisters, new baby brother,
working Daddy and stay-at-home Mum.
Oh, there were bad times.
Spanking, yelling, angry times.
But they passed, they were familiar,
And grandmother lived just around the corner,
always, always there to comfort and advise.
Suddenly ...
 Death!
Baby brother (sleeping quietly in his crib)
Gone!
Gone?
... dead for no apparent reason.
Oh, the disbelief! the anguish! the shock ...
How can this be?
It is Eastertime.
Mummy is shrieking, terrified.
Daddy has Johnny on the bed.
Desperately Daddy is trying to pump life back into the little body.
My playmates are scared ...
running back to their homes.
Mrs. Brown, next door! She's a nurse! She can fix this!
I run:
"Mrs. Brown, something's happened"
"Mrs. Brown, help my Daddy "
"Mrs. Brown, my brother needs you!"
She comes into the house and goes upstairs.
She comes down again,
"Take your little sisters to your grandmother's house,
tell her to come over here, quickly!"
I take my sisters to Nana's.
And the Easter eggs are on the table, even one for baby Johnny.
I still don't comprehend the finality of today's event.
I am ten years old.
A few weeks after this event, my mother suicided. Our family was living in Sanderstead, Surrey, England, at that time. Two of the friends who were in my house when the baby died were Mrs Brown's half-Canadian sons, Paddy (short for Patrick,) and his younger brother, Michael. In fact, it was Paddy who first ran to fetch his mother (with me behind him). I last saw them in 1961. I would dearly love to get in touch with Paddy again; if anyone reading this knows anything of him, I would be delighted to receive a note.
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